


Beef Tea for the Soulless

by Tibby



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 05:04:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19078045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/pseuds/Tibby
Summary: Somewhere around the year 1856, Aziraphale received a letter from Crowley. It read:Have been taken ill. Please bring soup.Yours, as ever,C.





	Beef Tea for the Soulless

Somewhere around the year 1856, Aziraphale received a letter from Crowley. It read:

_Have been taken ill. Please bring soup._

_Yours, as ever,_

_C._

Dutifully, Aziraphale packed a pot of beef tea in a Gladstone bag (adding, for good measure, a couple of books he believed Crowley would like) and made his way to the address given in the letterhead.

The address led him to a hotel, and the concierge at the hotel led him to a suite on the fourth and final floor. When he knocked at the door, Crowley opened it himself.

Aziraphale drew what he hoped was a subtle intake of breath. For centuries now, Crowley had been working the ‘pale and interesting’ look, but Aziraphale felt that he had finally taken it too far. He was pale. His dark hair hung lankly over his white, gently perspiring forehead. The fingers that still held the door handle were trembling.

“Right,” said Aziraphale, “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Crowley did not protest. He merely smiled faintly - which confused Aziraphale but did not put the angel off his stride. He took Crowley’s arm and helped him back to the bedroom.

Crowley sat on the edge of the bed whilst Aziraphale peered closely at his face.

“What are you doing?” the demon asked in a quiet, gravelly voice.

“I’m…” Aziraphale frowned and thought for a moment. He was pretty much acting as he believed people were supposed to act when they were seeing what was wrong with a sick person. “Taking your temperature?” he finished, lamely.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

“No,” Aziraphale conceded.

“Can I lie down now?”

Crowley didn’t wait for an answer; he just collapsed backwards as though a prop had been removed from his back. Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s legs and tried to arrange him neatly in the centre of the bed. He fluffed his pillows, pulled up the sheets and tucked him in. Then he retrieved the beef tea from his bag.

“Here,” he said, holding a cup up to Crowley’s lips, “Drink this.”

Crowley nodded weakly and did as he was told.

Aziraphale watched to make sure Crowley finished the entire cup. Eventually, he said, “Demons don’t get sick, you know.”

“It’s something new I’m trying.”

Aziraphale frowned.

“And besides,” Crowley continued, “You came, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, sighing deeply, “I did.”


End file.
